49. Brayden

Chapter forty-nine

Brayden

April

T raining the last couple of months has been hard. After not being on the ice for two months, I lost a lot of strength in my arms and legs. But late sessions in the gym with Bohdi and him being relentless has built me up to this moment.

The last game of the season.

It's the one game we have been working toward all season.

The final of the frozen four.

Coach's decision to bench me during the semifinal hit like a slapshot to the gut. The team felt it, too—we were a tight-knit crew, and my absence echoed through the locker room. But fate had other plans. Our boys stepped up, playing like their lives depended on it. I watched from the sidelines, fists clenched, heart pounding.

And then Kal got body-checked, a brutal collision that sent him sprawling. I lost it. Kicked a bench so hard it splintered like my dreams of being out there on the ice. If Coach hadn't pinned me down, I swear I'd have leaped over the boards, skates on, and pummeled the guy who did it. My rage was a wild animal foaming at the mouth.

But the game ended, and the adrenaline didn't dissolve. No, it fueled me. I stalked that player, quiet, determined. When he least expected it, I booted him square in the back. His knees buckled, and a minor scuffle erupted. Fists flew, helmets rattled—it was hockey in its rawest form.

Kal has a new motto: "Sink pucks first, fists later." And damn, it's a great motto. Because sometimes, in the heat of the rink, you need both fire and ice to survive.

"Are you ready, Quake?" Tray slaps my back as I take my time lacing up my skates, making sure they're perfect. Never underestimate a good pair of laced up skates.

"Born ready."

"Did teach give you a good morning fuck to set you up for the ga—"

"King!" Coach bellows. "I will beat your ass if that mouth keeps moving."

"Yes, Coach," Tray mumbles, rolling his eyes. I know it's not the fact Tray was saying those words, it's who those words were about that has rubbed Coach up the wrong way. I glance up at Coach whose eyes quickly move away from me.

It makes me sad Bohdi lost someone who has been by his side since they were young. The guilt has eaten at me more times than I can count. But Bohdi always pulls me back out of the guilt and reminds me that the people that truly care for him would be happy. He's not bothered, so why should I be? Coach acts weirdly with me now. He's pissed. I've tried explaining that it was as much me as it was Bohdi. But my age always comes into it among other things that I can't even think about without feeling like I will lose it with everyone around me.

I get it sometimes. It's crazy for a now twenty-year-old being with a man twenty-one years his senior, but we have one life and one life only. We don't get replays of life; we get one shot at it and who am I to walk away from a love that I know I will never find again because of some stupid numbers?

Why would I not take the chance of being truly happy for once?

People stare. They can't help it. Sometimes it's a disgusted glance when Bohdi will grab me in the streets and smack his lips to mine, but sometimes it's in awe. Bohdi is a walking masterpiece. His stride and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, that alone draws attention.

It's fucking annoying. But I revel in it.

Jealous glances fuel my defiance. They don't know our story, the late-night talks, the shared dreams, the way his hand fits mine. This is the unexpected love story, the one I never imagined and never expected. Bohdi shattered my defenses, and he claims he knocked on my door and waited for me to let him in.

Little does he know, he kicked the door open long before that moment and forced his way into my heart.

No door was keeping Bohdi out.

When I was warming up, I glanced around the stadium looking for Bohdi, but I couldn't see him. He told me where he was sitting, in the first row, right next to the benches, which I'm pretty sure Denny was pissed about, but I couldn't see him. Maybe he was getting a drink. Fucking best be. We came together, so he's got no excuse why he can't be here.

I pick up my phone, ready to put my headphones in, but Coach's voice echoes around the locker room.

"All right, listen up! Before we hit the ice, I need a quick chat with you all." I toss my phone aside and stand up, heading over to huddle with my teammates.

"This year? Damn, it's been epic. Feels as if I've watched you boys transform from wide-eyed kids to full-grown men in a matter of months. And let me tell you, you've made me damn proud, even if some of you raise my blood pressure like it's their part-time job." I shoot Tray a look.

"That was definitely aimed at you," I mutter to him.

"Eat ass," Tray fires back.

"Already did, twice," I wink. He bites his lip, trying not to crack up. Tray loves it when I mess with him. Meanwhile, Kal—our resident serious guy—stands across from us, brooding because we're not hanging on every word coach say.

And that's why he's our captain.

"Wayne Gretzky once dropped this wisdom: ‘You miss 100 percent of the shots you don't take.' Well, tonight, we're taking every damn shot. I want your blades digging into the ice like talons, hearts pounding. This rink? It's our hunting ground. You hear me? You are the Devil Hawks!" The locker room erupts—helmets smacking together, cheers echoing.

"But listen up," Coach continues. "The best teams? They're not just a bunch of random folks. They're a brotherhood. And let me tell you, it makes me damn proud to be your coach. So leave no doubt out there. When that puck drops, we're not just playing a game; we're writing our legacy. Now go out there and make history!"

And with that, the locker room explodes, the smell of sweat, the clank of sticks, and the echo of pure determination.

"Let's do this, Devil Hawks!" Kal shouts, and then everyone's shouting, people bumping into each other. Everyone begins to filter out as I make my way back to my locker.

"Yo, Quake?" Tray's voice echoes across the locker room.

"Yeah, I'll catch up with you out there," I reply. The truth is, I wasn't expecting a pep talk, so I hadn't queued up my song. But that song, it's my ritual. Coach will probably chew me out when he realizes I'm not on the ice, but I don't care. I can't step onto that frozen surface without hearing it.

I glance around, searching for my phone. "I swear I left it here," I mutter, eyeing the bench where I was sitting. Panic flares up. "Where the hell is my damn phone?" I sing-song my frustration, scanning the floor. And then there it is—a glimmer of shattered glass.

"Shit." I reach down, picking up my mangled phone. It must've taken a hit during our pre-speech celebration. I press the power button, but the screen remains lifeless. Nothing. Nada.

I check everyone else's dressing area, no phones. Damn it. What am I going to do? I can't even text Bohdi. Panic claws its way up my throat. I have no choice. I'll play the NCAA final without my song. As I walk down the tunnel, the ice smell hits me, and my legs turn to lead.

I'll fucking mess up. I just know it.

As soon as my skates hit the ice, dread washes over me. I can't focus on no one, I can't focus on anything. When I get a bad feeling about something, it's normally always spot on.

Kal skates over to me, his brows furrowed behind his helmet.

"Put your helmet on. What the fuck is that panic on your face as well? Quake don't panic," Kal says, skating in circles around me, tapping my pads. He smacks his helmet against mine.

"We've got this," he says, his voice a steady anchor in the whirlwind of nerves. "Relax," he adds, his frown softening the edges of his determination.

"I'm going to fuck up, Kal," I confess, my voice trembling with panic. The weight of the game, the pressure to perform, it's all crashing down on me.

"What are you talking about?" Kal's eyes search mine, concern etching lines on his face.

"My phone just shattered," I admit, my fingers still trembling. "I haven't had a chance to listen to my song."

Kal's expression shifts from concern to understanding. He knows what it's like to play without our ritual, without that familiar melody coursing through our veins. In the last few games, when I wasn't there, he hesitated on certain shots. Doubt crept in, biting at his confidence.

I close my eyes, desperate to recreate the symphony in my head, the song that's become my lucky charm. But it slips away, vague as a dream when waking. Bexley's face flickers, a snapshot of joy, his air guitar, the way he laughed when we were just us. I cling to those memories, hoping they'll anchor me.

The opponent skates over, grinning. "Brayden Quake Anders," he mutters, taunting me. I remain silent, tongue heavy with lead. I've researched Montgomery Nathans, analyzed his moves, but fear grips me.

"The Quake has nothing to say? Well, shit."

"Shut the fuck up," I grit out my eyes on the ice.

"I heard your teach was banging you up the ass in extra classes? I heard he's big. I might have a go on it and see what the fuss is about. I mean, by looking at him you can tell he fucks like a pro. Does he make you call him Daddy?" He taunts and I want to unleash my fury, pummel my fists into his face. But I'm frozen, trapped in my own doubt.

And then it happens—the stomping, the clapping. The beat.

I tilt my head up, scanning the stadium. Devil Hawks fans stomp their feet, clap their hands, and erupt into "We Will Rock You."

The collective voice reverberates, drowning out my fear. Bohdi stands by the players' benches, grinning wide, singing like his life depends on it. My team joins in, Kal, Tray, Cope, Jennings, Coach—all of us, united by rhythm and purpose.

Sticks raised high, we put our everything into the song. Memories of Bexley flood my mind, his bright face, his laughter, our shared happiness. It's like a rolling film tape, capturing our life together.

As the crowd reaches the final chorus, something shifts within me.

Quake steps onto the ice.

Nathans stares at me, fire burning in his eyes as I smirk at him. We both keep our heads down, facing the ice where the puck will drop, our sticks ready.

"He doesn't make me call him Daddy, actually. It's a bit tasteless," I quip. The puck rises and Nathan's shoulders go stiff.

"Although." I smirk. "Your dad loved when I screamed ‘Fuck me daddy.'" I slide past, puck against my stick.

Rumors are great. Apparently, his mom caught his dad in bed with a man. I have to give myself an internal high five for that comment.

Flying up the rink, Kal streaks down the left, stick tapping for the pass. I pass it, threading the needle. As soon as it meets Kal's stick, he wounds up, unleashing a slapshot that screams toward the top corner. Steel, their goalie, lunges, glove snapping shut. But Kal grins, a near miss, but a warning shot.

The puck hits the ice, Tray intercepts, weaving through defenders. His stick handling was skillful, the puck glued to his blade. He swings, mesmerizing, and then the puck meets my stick. I spin, eyes on the net. Steel tracks my eyes and then the puck. Desperation is etched on his face.

I fake a left, then whip the puck right. The net calls to the puck like a siren's song. The crowd held its breath and then the buzzer goes off. My team mates swarm me with smiles and cheers.

The Frostbites keep pressing, and each time we sink the puck, they sink one after. It's back and forth all the time. Cope and Becketts, our D-man, battles in the trenches. Nathans, their power forward, crashes the crease. Cope slams him into the boards, ribs rattling. Nathans snarls, but Cope grins, he's our very own beast protecting his den. The puck echoes, chaos reigning. Cope clears it, eyes never leaving the play. Our team is moved around. Me, Kal, and Tray are all pulled off. Coach knows this is going to overtime. Our team fight with everything, Hawks score, Frostbite score, this goes on and before we know it, the whistle blows, overtime looms.

Devil Hawks: 6 Frostbite: 6

The rink throbs with desperation—an arena on the edge of eruption. Overtime—a sudden-death duel where heroes emerge, and hearts hang by a thread. The crowd's roar swirls like a blizzard, encircling us, amplifying the stakes. Coach reunites the nightmare line, our secret weapon, for this decisive moment.

Back to the faceoff, Nathans bares his teeth. No snide remarks, no playful banter—just raw intensity. This is it the culmination of a year's need. Will the Devil Hawks win? The puck ascends, and time stretches thin. In that breathless instant, I send a silent plea to Bexley.

Wish us luck, bro. We're winning this for you.

The whistle pierces the tension, and the puck drops. Nathans's stick clashes with mine—a furious blur of motion. He's like a whippet, seizing the puck and streaking past me. My heart sinks, but there's no room for hesitation. Hockey demands constant awareness. Cope and Becketts zone in on Nathans as he winds up for a slapshot. Becketts blocks it, and the crowd erupts.

Tray, our speed demon, takes possession and rockets up the right side. His legs churn like turbines. Two D-men close in on Tray, but he threads a lightning-quick pass to me. I move with urgency, legs burning, lungs screaming. We need this victory; it's etched in our very bones.

I fake left, then right, before returning the puck to Tray. It's back to me in a heartbeat. Against my stick, the puck glides as I pass it to Kal. He blurs past the D-man, eyes locked on the goal. The arena collectively holds its breath. Kal shoots—but Steele, their tough goalie, saves it with a pad. Tray slaps his stick against the ice in frustration. I skate over to him.

"We've got this," I assure him, helmet to helmet. Determination fuels our veins as we reset.

The puck finds us again, and we know it's time to end this. We need this victory like oxygen. The crack of sticks fills my ears as the puck dances between our nightmare line. The crowd roars, drawing us closer. I glimpse an opening, but Kal taps his stick—a signal. I see it—the gap, the chance.

Kal slides the puck to me, right in front of the goal as if I'm about to take the shot. I fake slapshot, and the last-minute slide left to Kal. The defense is too quick though and the D-men clash, sticks colliding, a riot of desperation with Kal. Kal flicks the puck up on his stick. We watch it spin and spin in the air as it comes back down, meeting Kal's stick before he slams it toward the goal, aiming for that sliver of opportunity. It slips through one D-man's legs, then another. The goalie's pads loom, but Kal's stick meets it again.

And then the buzzer blares.

We won.

The arena trembles beneath my skates. Scream, cheers and roars fill my ears. I blow a kiss to Bex, thanking him, and there's one person I zone in on.

Number 13's biggest fan.